


we can work it night by night

by Symbolic



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Enjolras is a lightweight, Grantaire is a dick, M/M, TW: Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symbolic/pseuds/Symbolic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He then sank to the floor. Grantaire held his breath. Was he going to-? </p><p>He felt a slight scrubbing sensation at his stomach, and looked down. Enjolras was rubbing furiously at his abdominal muscles with a bit of the sleeve of his turtleneck, and looked cross. “Muscular honesty,” he said, continuing to rub, “is of crucial importance. I refuse to be deluded by the smoke and mirrors of aptitude with cosmetics. The people will not stand for this!” </p><p>Grantaire coughed. “Actually, I spend a lot of time working on my body with my personal fitness instructor.” </p><p>Or - The Crazy in Love AU where Grantaire is Ryan Gosling and it all goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we can work it night by night

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever (I have resisted in vain for about a year now but my desire to write this overcame my minimal desire to write my 'Beowulf' essay, and so here we are) so please excuse all mistakes, typos, and characters behaving in a wildly OOC manner. 
> 
> Also SPOILER ALERT: If you have not watched the final episode of Season Two of 'Breaking Bad' then you may want to skip this, because one plot point is revealed. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The night at the bar was Courfeyrac’s idea. The night at the bar was always Courfeyrac’s idea. He had been deaf to Enjolras’ pleading about the proximity of the end of his post-grad conversion course (Law – what else? It had rapidly become apparent upon graduation that there was little calling for professional activists), batted away excuses about lack of money and slight sore-throats that threatened to become full-on tonsillitis at any given second, and had dragged him into a taxi before he had been able to finish his sentence. And now, here they were. In some horribly sophisticated bar in the bloody _centre_ of the city of London, surrounded by ostentatiously public-schooled financiers and brokers.

“We’re surrounded by ostentatiously public-schooled financiers and brokers, Courf” Enjolras said, reaching fifty on his spot count of the number of Chelsea boots being worn.

Courfeyrac gave him an aggrieved Look. It was one he was rather proud of, cultivated to give the exact intermediate between ‘kicked puppy’ and ‘I-won-the-yearbook-prize-for-“Rear-of-the-Year”-and-that-makes-me-far-superior-to-you’. “I’m a public-schooled financier, Enjolras.”

“Yes, but you’re different. You actually _care.”_

It was true. Courfeyrac did care. He was the single most caring person that anyone had ever met. He had been a direct shoe-in for the position of Welfare Officer back at university, standing unopposed partially because of the strength of the aggrieved Look, but mostly because nobody could imagine anyone more temperamentally suited for the position. During his two year reign of office, more glitter had been thrown and more cookies consumed by snivelling first years than anyone thought possible. Sometimes Enjolras still found specks of glitter in his eyebrows. It was at moments like that that he questioned his taste in friends.

Courfeyrac laughed, swivelling in his chair to survey the occupants of the room. Enjolras wasn’t wrong, it was filled with guffawing Augustuses and Archies. “Lighten up, for god’s sake, Enjolras. I’m all for ‘power to the people’ and whatnot – I think my dedication to the overthrow of the Student Union in when we were finalists is evidence enough of that-” Enjolras shuddered. Nobody needed to remember the overthrow of the Student Union when they were finalists, “-but try and have a bit of fun, just for once. Let your hair down, kiss some random man you meet, give the tabloids something to work with when they try and drag your name through the mud during your bid to become a judge twenty years from now.”

“Do you really think they would do that?” Enjolras asked, a frown passing across his face. He knew that the tabloid paper industry was unscrupulous – the phone hacking scandal and subsequent Leveson enquiry (that he had meticulously watched every day) had stood testament to that – but if they really got involved with the _judiciary_ then he should probably think abou –

“Jesus Christ, E, is that all you gathered from that speech?” Courfeyrac ran a hand through his chaotic hair and sighed, knocking back the last of his drink. “If you’re determined to be such a fun-sponge then I need another whiskey. Wait here, and _try_ not to make someone cry with your opinions on the new tax legislation.”

Enjolras frowned at his receding back. “I never make people cry! Except for that one boy, and that was because he thought _Napoleon was a bloody great ruler.”_

Several of the Augustuses turned to stare curiously at him as the volume of his voice increased. “But Napoleon _was_ a great ruler!” one of them objected, gesturing their hand towards him. Enjolras caught the tell-tale gold flash of a signet ring and began to open his mouth with a retort designed to make the man rue the day that he had started subscribing to a corrupt system of government when he was interrupted by a voice coming from directly behind him.

“I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.”

He swivelled round, to see that someone had taken Courfeyrac’s vacated seat.

“They won’t understand. They were brought up thinking that dictatorship and autocracy was the best way to rule a country.”

\---

Whoever this guy was, Enjolras found himself thinking approximately fifty six seconds later, he was an utter douchebag. The conversation had got off to an optimistic start – disagrees with the idea of autocracy, tick, hasn’t yet mentioned his belief that bisexual people are just indecisive and greedy, tick, isn’t wearing a revoltingly tacky and revoltingly expensive novelty tie, tick. Everything went downhill from there on in.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the man had said, giving Enjolras one long, cool, look up and down, making him feel as though he were the bit of DNA that Watson and Crick had isolated under the microscope.

“I’m not drinking.”

“I’m buying you a drink” he had said decisively. About three seconds later Enjolras found a dry martini being plonked down in front of him by a waiter who was making ridiculously obvious flirty eyes at the guy opposite him. Enjolras took umbrage to this. Fifty six seconds was enough to doom anyone.

“He’s not _that_ good looking” he pointed out to the waiter, who blushed a mortified shade of red.

“Who isn’t that good looking?” the guy opposite asked with an interested air.

“Yeah, who isn’t that good looking?” Courf had popped back up, bearing signs of having to battle through the crowd at the bar. Enjolras frowned.

“It’s patently unfair that my friend has to go to the bar to get a drink, and you can just whisk one out of thin air because you’re hot. And anyway, as I said, you’re not _that_ good looking.” Enjolras felt he had a point. The only way you’d find him good looking was if you were into that cheekbones-hand-tailored-suit-exceptional-charisma thing. Which, personally, he wasn’t.

The not- _that_ -good-looking guy from the bar raised one eyebrow at Enjolras. “Well that’s a shame, because you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure if the not- _that_ -good-looking guy was flirting with him.

“E, he’s flirting with you.” Courf supplied helpfully, his eyes transfixed on the guy who, Enjolras noted with a now-familiar sense of outrage, had not only transcended the rules of the sign that proclaimed _‘_ NO TABLE SERVICE’ on the wall, but had also _stolen Courfeyrac’s seat._ It didn’t matter that Courf seemed perfectly happy with standing. No, it was the _principle_ of the thing.

“Sometimes Enjolras struggles with detecting romantic interest. Once he nearly got seduced by his tutor because he thought that she was just so genuinely interested in his essay on subversive revolutionary movements that she wanted to discuss it in her hot tub. Naked.” Courf continued to supply, less helpfully in Enjolras’ eyes, to the guy. He then turned to Enjolras, clearly on a mission to do enough helpful supplying to fuel several humanitarian aid crises all the world over. “And he is _that_ good looking, E. Just think! This is your chance! Do something with some random hot guy in a bar that might scupper all your future chances of revolutionizing the judicial system from the inside out!”

The guy flashed what was probably supposed to be a blinding smile at Enjolras, but given his current state of annoyance, it was merely quite glinty. Okay, maybe very glinty. “Yeah, Enjolras, do something with a random hot guy! Preferably this random hot guy.”

Enjolras fixed him with his best imitation of Courfeyrac’s Look. When that didn’t work, he used his own Look – something which he usually kept in reserve, because he had to admit that sometimes it did make people cry a little bit. The man seemed annoyingly unperturbed. This was unprecedented. Enjolras hitched his Look up another notch. It could now passably be defined as a glare. He was glaring at the man. The man just continued to smile that annoyingly glinty and white and perfect smile.

“Are you my appendix? Because, honestly, I don’t really know what’s going on with you but I _really_ want to take you out.”

Enjolras snapped. “Really? Really? Is that the best you can come up with? Do you literally just sit around in that perfectly fitted suit chatting people up? Is that your life goal?”

The man blinked. For a second he seemed slightly taken aback. Then the smile was back. “Do you really think my suit is perfectly fitted?”

Enjolras got up and walked out.

\---

The bar was emptying out. In the corner Grantaire was hunching with a look of total disbelief plastered to his face.

“He walked out!”

“It can happen you know. It’s rare, I’ll grant you, but sometimes people just don’t appreciate being come on-to in bars by men who clearly spend more time each day doing their hair than reading meaningful books.” Éponine took a long draught of her drink – a triple vodka tonic, and Grantaire had to grudgingly admire the kind of individual who could drink that kind of drink without flinching – and raised one eyebrow. “Who cares? There were about twenty gazillion other people in here tonight that I’m sure would have swooned under your charm-offensive.”

Grantaire straightened up and gave her a contemptuous look. “Look, on any other night I might just be a charming, handsome, manipulative-”

“-Egoistic, big headed, sex-obsessed, over-groomed-”

“-douchebag, but credit me with _some_ sentiment. This guy, Ep, he was… ugh, he was even hotter than Ryan Gosling in ‘The Place Beyond the Pines.’”

“No-one is hotter than the Gozz. Especially not when he’s working his ‘troubled-baby-daddy-I’ll-steal-anything-to-care-for-my-child’ look.” She caught him giving her a disturbed look. “What?! It’s sexy. Anyway, it’s good to know that your obsession over this guy is purely based on his looks. Really showing off that sensitive side you’re so desperate to cultivate.”

“Oh piss off,” Grantaire muttered, standing up and stretching so that the vertebrae in his back gave a revolting _snap._ His companion shuddered, and he gave her a smirk before starting to crack each of his knuckles individually.“I’m just saying, if there was anyone that could persuade me to give up this debauched life of alcohol and meaningless sex for a nice house in the Cotswolds and a daily subscription to both the ‘Guardian’ and the ‘Telegraph’ so we could keep an eye on what the opposition is doing, it was this guy.”

Éponine finished her drink in one and also stood up, linking her arm through Grantaire’s and leading him out of the room, winking at the bartender as she did so. “Yeah, yeah, right. The day you settle down and start something serious is the day that _she,”_ Éponine gestured in the general direction of the bartender, “stops wearing that horrible shade of lipstick. Honestly, R, don’t people understand that baby-pink just doesn’t suit certain skin-tones? It doesn’t make you look cute, it just makes you look a bit porcine. I keep _telling_ her I’d fancy her way more if she wore something with raspberry tones but she won’t listen. And then she wonders why I try not to look too much at her face when we’re having sex.”

Grantaire lit a cigarette before answering, blowing the smoke into the nippy night air and staring down the road for the familiarly grotesque bulk of a London taxi. “Look, Ep, not everyone has our natural sense of style. Not everyone can wear the right blue coloured suit to go with a brown loafer, and not everyone can understand that off the shoulder dresses _always_ look tacky. It’s a burden we have to bear. Recognizing the hideous flaws in the outfits that everyone around us comes up with. Like perfect pitch but with clothes. Perfect discernment.”

The conversation promptly devolved into a fierce debate about whether or not Benedict Cumberbatch in ‘Sherlock’ could accurately be described as ‘well dressed’, and it was only later, when Grantaire was in the lift on the way up to his flat – penthouse, amazing views of the Thames, totally lacking in personal effects – that he remembered what he had been so hung-up on. He mused for several moments upon the man’s name. It had definitely begun with an E, he remembered the perky friend with the afro saying so. E… dward. Yes, Edward sounded good.

He let himself into the silent flat, alone for the first time in more weeks than he could instantly remember. Carelessly ripping off his white shirt and leaving it in a crumpled mess on the floor, he smirked. Edward would definitely be back again sooner or later. He shot himself two thumbs up and winked in the mirror. No-one could really resist the attraction of… _R._

\---

“Enjolras!”

“What do you want, Courf? I’m trying to do some work and it isn’t going to get done if you keep sending me those emojis of that cat wearing a party hat eating sushi.”

“How about the gif of the pug in the spider costume?”

“C, all of its distracting! Why are you calling in any case? Aren’t you supposed to be on some work thing? Get off the phone and go and work your charm on some colleague instead of pestering me with things you found on BuzzFeed.”

“You love the things I find on BuzzFeed. Anyway, I’m back at the bar! You know, the one we went to a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah, I know. What about it?”

“The really hot guy just walked in. You know, the one that was hitting on you? The one with the _really_ tight suit trousers and the stubble.”

“Yeah, I know. Seriously Courf, what’s your point? I have an exam in two days.”

“You should definitely come here and tap that booty. Get a bit of man meat. You know, do the frickle-frackle with him.”

“You know perfectly well I’m in a monogamous relationship.”

“What, with Simon? No offense, E, but that man is the _most_ boring individual I have ever met. He must be the kind of guy that insists on doing it with the lights off, and with special interdictions on the use ofhandcuffs. Do you talk parliamentary reform post-coitus?”

“Simon is perfectly intelligent and suitable. I don’t need some random hot guy in a _bar_ to-”

“Enjolras, you just described your partner as _‘suitable’._ If that doesn’t indicate that you are in serious need of a bit of kinky rumpy pumpy with-”

“Where the fuck did you get ‘rumpy pumpy’ from? Have you been watching ‘Miranda’ box sets again? Look, Courf, I appreciate the thought but really, I’m fine. My sex life is more than fulfilling, and I have to do some revision for this exam. If I fail it then I’ll have to become a management consultant, and then my life really will be boring, Simon or no Simon.”

“Well, if you’re sure. When you’re married to that boring old sod and crying wistful tears into your pillow at night about the liaison that could have been, you won’t be able to blame me.”

“I’m sure I won’t. Now go! See you tomorrow for breakfast with Combeferre. Don’t forget.”

“Brekkie with Combeferre and Enjolras. Got it. Just like old times! See you then, bro.”

“Bye.”

\---

Grantaire was having a midlife crisis. Technically, he wasn’t anywhere near the middle of his life (he hoped), and he wasn’t sure if you could actually count this as a crisis, but the phrase sounded sufficiently dramatic to his ears, and he liked the connotations. Maybe he should buy a wildly unsuitable Porsche, just to make sure that he was keeping in line with expectations.

Things hadn’t been going well since the Edward incident. At twenty-six, Grantaire had never given much thought to anything other than maximising on his good looks, charm and wealth whilst they were still intact, but something about being shot down with such efficiency had given him cause to stop and re-evaluate. Éponine was right, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t been rejected before – you couldn’t spend as much time in pursuit of the ultimate one-night stand as Grantaire did without receiving a few really _spectacular_ rebuffs (the time that one woman had tied him to a stairwell that smelt of piss in a near-empty car park with his own university tie, leading to an unfortunate encounter with the head of a Mexican drug cartel, sprang regrettably to mind) – but it had never felt quite as personal before now.

Granted, the stairwell-tying incident had been nasty, but it had felt like fair compensation for his general brand of dominating seduction. Edward’s comment about the futility of his, Grantaire’s, existence, had been… well, it had been just plain _mean._ This was on top of the fact that Edward had been ridiculously hot. Unfairly hot, in the ‘I-don’t-even-use-a-tiny-bit-of-product-in-my-hair’ kind of way. Grantaire had often been compared to a magpie, with his compulsive buying habits (the penthouse flat that was so free of personal effects was absolutely stuffed full of the latest pieces of technology, expensive studded leather sofas bought from the selling off of country estates, and a twenty-eight set of faux-crystal whiskey glasses that he had been tempted into buying during a particularly intensive day of self-pity and shopping channel binge-watching on Sky) and this Edward guy was something that he _wanted._  

He tried explaining this to Bahorel the next time they went to the gym together.

“Bahorel, I’m having a midlife crisis.”

“You sound like a bit of a dickhead, to be honest, mate.”

Bahorel used the weight machine with enviable ease, not even breaking a sweat as his muscles contorted to lift some ridiculous load that Grantaire could only dream of. He didn’t consider himself to be _weedy_ , per se – nobody could consider Grantaire to be weedy, especially given the amount of time he spent working on his body with his personal fitness instructor – but there was something about spending time with Bahorel that couldn’t help but instil a sense of personal inadequacy in one’s self.  

“Why am I a dickhead?”

“Because you spend all this time screwing around with anyone that’s available, and the moment that someone you actually really think is fit turns you down you decide you’re having some sort of fucking existential crisis and start moping to all of us about it.”

“It’s a serious matter! I’m having to re-evaluate my life, Bahorel! I couldn’t even contemplate eating my goiji-berry muesli this morning, I was so distracted.”

Bahorel sat up and fixed Grantaire with the kind of beady stare that made policemen put away their handcuffs and walk away staring pointedly in the other direction. “Look, R, your life is fucking _sweet_. You’re not bad to look at, you’re clever and you’re rich. And you don’t have to do _anything_ you’re not inclined to do. You’re living the dream, man.”

“What if the dream isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be?”

“Can you hear yourself? Seriously, bro, Feuilly has to work about seven different jobs, all with shitty pay, just to be able to afford the rent on his quite frankly crappy flat in fucking _Dalston._ Stop complaining, get back on the horse and move on with your life. Some guy didn’t want you, boohoo, quit bitching to me, quit bitching to Éponine, don’t even think about starting to bitch to Jehan and get over it.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll get over it.”

Starting to bitch to Jehan was definitely a good idea.

\---

Enjolras sank back into the mounds of bubbles and breathed a sigh of relief. Law conversion course was done. Finito, caput, ended. Caloo, callay, oh frabjous day, he thought as he groped around in the soapy water for something that way poking into his leg. Extracting it, he brought it out of the bath and wiped off the piles of pale pink sparkly bubbles that were coating it.

A rubber duck. Where the fuck did a rubber duck come from?

At that moment the front door slammed and he heard the sound of keys being thrown into the bowl on the kitchen table. “Enjolras, darling, I’m here! I’ve come to celebrate the end of your exams.” The voice moved further away, down the hall into the sitting room. “I bought a new series of that Swedish political drama that we both liked so much. I thought we could watch an episode together and maybe then we could go over your application for a pupillage…”

Enjolras breathed a heavy sigh. He had reckoned on having the flat to himself for another good few hours before Simon came round. Simon was… Enjolras hadn’t directly been lying to Courfeyrac when he said that Simon was intelligent. Simon _was_ intelligent. And he was suitable. He didn’t drink to excess, he had a healthy amount of respect for the importance of consent in sexual relationships, he understood the subtleties the fracking debate that was currently ongoing in Parliament. He was just a tad... well, Courfeyrac himself hadn’t been lying when he had said that Simon was also a tad boring. And perhaps a bit sanctimonious. _‘And the sex isn’t really that good. And he doesn’t let us use handcuffs!’_ his inner Courf whispered bitchily into his ear.

Enjolras dropped the rubber duck. Having an inner Courfeyrac was a clear sign of madness. An inner Combeferre, he could deal with… but Courfeyrac? An inner Courfeyrac would inevitably deliver a soliloquy on the benefits of glittery sex toys over plain functional sex toys every single time he set foot in the district of Soho. This was a disaster. Now that he thought about it, screwing up his eyes to stare at the duck, bobbing innocuously amongst the floes and icebergs of glittery foam, that probably came from C as well. As did the bath bomb that he had used to make this bath.

“Fuck.”

“Enjy, I thought we agreed. No swearing! It promotes a bad vibe. Two pounds in the heating for the elderly swear jar, please.”

That was another thing about Simon. _Enjy._ The name was horrific. Nobody had ever called Enjolras Enjy before, and if he had his way, nobody ever would. No matter how many times he had tried to explain this to his partner, however emphatically he described his unequivocal and intrinsic hatred of that revolting nickname, Simon continued to use it. Fucking bloody fucking annoying.

He looked up at his boyfriend who was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, and mustered a weak smile.

“How was your day?” he asked, absentmindedly toying with the duck. It was really rather growing on him.

Simon gave a dramatic sigh and flopped down to sit on the closed loo. “Oh, _awful_ , work was absolutely _packed._ God, Enjolras, you really have no idea. Being a corporate lawyer is exhausting. You really have it lucky, barristers barely ever do anything. Plus there’s all this buzz at work, because, you know, the local elections are coming up and obviously I voted Packer last time but-”

Enjolras sat up in the bath. The water sloshed around him. The rubber duck bobbed once, hopefully, and then sank beneath the mire again. “You voted _Packer_ last time? Packer? _Packer?”_

Simon gave him a bemused look. “Yes, of course I voted Packer, he was the only one with any _reasonable_ policies-”

“You voted _Packer?”_

“Well yes, Enjy, I wish you’d stop repeating me. As I was saying, I voted Packer last time but-”

“YOU VOTED _PACKER? YOU VOTED FOR THE CONSERVATIVE MP?”_

Enjolras had stoop up in the bath. The effect was slightly undermined by the fact that most of the foam, pink and glittery as it was, had adhered itself to his frame. Nevertheless, angry, foamy, naked Enjolras still presented a formidable sight. A bit of foam couldn’t undermine years of gradually accumulated righteous fury.

 _“_ Simon, you told me you voted Green! You told me on our first date that you totally agreed that the major political parties were corrupt and bureaucratic and that we should withhold our support until some serious reform is introduced! _You told me that you wholeheartedly agreed with Les Amis.”_

Simon also stood up. “Really, Enjolras, you don’t expect that I actually _voted_ for the Green Party, do you? Obviously not. I admit, the Conservatives have their flaws but really they field some quite sensible policies. Tuition fee hikes for one. And really, Enjolras, your group is just a little gathering of friends. You don’t expect to actually _do_ anything, do you?”

Enjolras flailed for a towel. Realising the majority of them were trapped behind the loo, behind Simon, he furiously turned and walked out of the bathroom naked.

Approximately three minutes later, he reappeared, having slung on the closest clothes he could find, still with dripping wet hair.

“Enjy, darling, where are you _going?_ I got us that box set!”

“Fuck the box set, Simon, and fuck you. And the swear jar. And don’t fucking call me Enjy. And don’t you fucking dare talk about _Les Amis_ like that again!”

“Enjolras, really, what are you doing?”

“I’m going out, and I’d rather you and your Conservative arse weren’t still here when I get back.”

He slammed the door. There was silence.

 _“LES AMIS IS A RIDICULOUS NAME.”_ Simon bellowed after him. _“NONE OF YOU ARE EVEN FRENCH.”_

\---

 Grantaire was feeling _good._ He was back on his game, he was back in his old life, he had his mojo back – whatever. The point was, he was feeling good, and in his world, that translated directly into picking someone up at his usual haunt and heading back to his for a night of debauched activity. Preferably involving the new massage chair that he’d picked up whilst walking through the shopping centre the week before.

He took a sip from his whiskey, and made a concerted effort to concentrate on what the woman in front of him was saying. Listening to what your prospective partner had to say was, as Grantaire was constantly trying to tell Marius, one of the Rules. Poor bloody Marius: too nervous and awkward to ever make much of his good looks, he constantly found himself accumulating new best friends rather than one night stands. Grantaire shook his head in pity for the boy. He would probably end up getting hitched to the first woman he went on a successful date with (and for Marius a successful date was probably one where he didn’t end up getting mistaken for the water upon arrival) and then spend his life having weepy emotional sex and looking after the children. Eurgh.

“So, anyway, as I was saying, I _told_ her that I couldn’t be bothered to go out for another night of girly drinks, I mean, the last one ended _so_ badly and she always gets emotional about her ex when she has any amount of – are you listening to me?”

“Hm, sorry?” Grantaire blinked, and looked up.

“It’s just that you didn’t seem like you were really interested…” the woman said doubtfully, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. Grantaire noted that it was slightly saggy under the arms. She had probably bought a size up in anticipation of gaining some weight in the upcoming Christmas season. Clearly had a nervous disposition, and no idea that open-toed shoes could categorically _not_ be worn with tights.

“No, no, I _am_ listening. Sorry if I phased out a bit, I was just concentrating on what you were saying about your friend, er…”

“Megan,” the woman supplied helpfully, before sucking on her straw, even though her drink was empty. The sucking sound against the ice cubes grated against Grantaire’s very soul.

“Let me get you another of those!” R flashed his signature blinding smile at the woman, who blushed and returned to fidgeting with her dress. “I’ll be back in a tick. You decide whether or not you’re busy later tonight.” He tipped her a wink and moved off toward the bar. “Dear god, Ep, help me.”

Éponine took her attention off the bartender (whom R noticed was now wearing a deep red lipstick: clearly Ep’s skills in bed had managed to instigate a revolution in her make up bag) and languorously turned toward him. “I told you when you spotted her: she’s a total snooze fest.”

“Ugh, god, a _total_ snooze fest, you have no idea. She keeps telling me about her troubles with her best friend. Like, does it look like I care about Megan’s alcohol problem?”

Éponine smirked. “Honestly, R, it probably does. You’ve perfected your polite fascination face down to a T. Anyway, can’t you just ditch her and mo-”

Grantaire had ceased to listen. His focus moved beyond Éponine to the entrance of the bar, where a familiar man with soaking hair and a furious expression on his face had just rushed in as though he was being pursued by a particularly enthusiastic set of One Direction fans who had mistaken him for Niall Horan or… or whoever. Grantaire didn’t want to examine his intimate knowledge of the names of One Direction too closely.

The man – Edward! It _had_ to be Edward – caught sight of him, and instead of turning away, walked purposely toward him. Grantaire’s mouth dropped open, partially because of gravity, but partially because his brain was unable to control his mouth, his eyes and his dick all at once, and his mouth was the least relevant of the three at this particular point in time. His mouth was still hanging wide open when the guy – when _Edward_ – strode furiously up to him and kissed him hard.

As first kisses go, it wasn’t a good one. This was mostly to do with the fact that R’s mouth was still wide open, and Edward had just trodden hard on his feet. This, however, was largely irrelevant, because his eyes were still working, and his dick was still working, and his eyes were rapidly telling his dick that they liked what they saw, thank you very much.

“Still want to go home with me?” Edward whispered furiously in his ear.

Grantaire, in the least smooth sex-acceptance speech of his life, went _“Nrgh.”_

“Good. Let’s go.”

\---

When Enjolras had left the bar with hot-guy-from-the-bar, he hadn’t really thought about what would happen next. Well, he had, in the sense that he had vaguely assumed that mind blowing sex would happen and that would be it, but he hadn’t actually thought about how to instigate the mind blowing sex once the moment arrived. Or even what to say on the journey back to HGFTB’s flat.

“Er,” said Grantaire, as the silence in the taxi reached Made in Chelsea-levels of awkwardness.

“Um,” said Enjolras in response.

Silence reigned.

“See the thing is,” Grantaire burst out with, unable to deal with the silence any longer. He was already developing a nervous tic in one eye, “see the thing is, last time we spoke, I’m pretty sure you said something about me being pointless and sleazy.”

“I never said you were sleazy.”

“You were thinking it though.”

Enjolras had to concede that he had a point. “Okay, yes, I thought you were sleazy.”

“ _Thought_ I was sleazy? Thought as in the thought of past tense?”

Beat.

“No, to be honest I still think you’re pretty sleazy.”

“Oh,” Grantaire muttered, and turned to look out of the window at the streets rushing past.

“But,” Enjolras continued, ploughing on with the dogged force of someone who has to grudgingly admit something that they really don’t want to grudgingly admit, “I have been inspecting, er, attractiveness levels, I mean, ah, I have been taking measurements of what is generally considered to be attractive, and I am forced to concede that you probably are _that_ good looking.”

“Ah, well, that’s probably good news for the night ahead. Thanks Edward.”

Enjolras blinked. He looked up. “Why are we thanking Edward? He hasn’t finished driving us yet.”

“ _Edward_ hasn’t finished driving us?!”

“Well, no, obviously not, because if he had finished then the cab would have stopped, wouldn’t it?”

“Look, I get that you probably have some control-freak kinky fuckery going on here, but don’t you think that implying that _you_ are driving this cab is going a bit far?” In Grantaire’s opinion, it _definitely_ was going a bit far. Regardless of what unrealistic bullshit Matilda instilled into impressionable young twelve-year-olds, it was impossible to move things with your mind. Grantaire knew this. He had tried enough times.

“Why would _I_ be driving the car?” Enjolras retorted.

“Because your name is Edward and you just said ‘Edward hasn’t finished driving us yet.’ Ergo, you think that you are driving us. God, simple logical conclusions, duh.”

Enjolras had a stunned look on his face. “Look, hot-guy-from-the-bar, my name _isn’t_ bloody ‘Edward’.”

“Oh, yeah, well what is it then?” Grantaire asked defiantly. He wasn’t sure when the conversation had taken such a turn for the horrifically paradoxical, and his whisky-soused brain wasn’t up to making great mental leaps, or even small mental hops.

“It’s _Enjolras_ , you idiot. Edward is the name of our cab driver.”

“Oh.” Grantaire said. “Right.”

The cab stopped. “That will be twenty three pounds sixty, thank you,” said Edward.

\---

HGFTB’s flat was, well, to put it bluntly, it was _nice._ Nice in the clearly-costs-an-absolute-bomb-I-mean-have-you- _seen_ -the-price-of-London-real-estate-these-days kind of way. Enjolras felt like a bit of an idiot, standing in the middle of it in his grey roll neck and black jeans. Hot-guy was off making some drink, and making a song and a dance about it too, and Enjolras didn’t really feel like he could point out that he didn’t drink. He wasn’t actually sure why he didn’t drink, anymore. Wasn’t drinking what you were supposed to do before you got down and had some rumpy pumpy _(Fuck OFF, inner Courf)_ with some randomer?

“I made you a drink.” Grantaire said, appearing in the door way.

“Thanks.” Enjolras replied, crossing the floor and taking the glass.

He drank the drink in one. It tasted weird. Then it tasted good. What he didn’t know was that Grantaire was famous for making lethal alcoholic cocktails that only ever contained the smallest dash of mixer. It was probably good that he didn’t know this. Silence reigned again, as Grantaire stared at his empty glass in horror. Enjolras smiled. “That was good. Can I have yours?” Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed Grantaire’s glass as well and drank that too. Definitely tasted good, not weird.

Silence reigned _again._ Grantaire found his nervous tic becoming ever more obvious, especially now that he was unable to subdue it with more alcohol. Suddenly, Enjolras spoke.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Why?”

“Just take it off.”

Grantaire shrugged, and took off his shirt. Enjolras stared. Enjolras continued to stare. Enjolras stared so much that R began worrying that the wind had changed direction and that he would be stuck permanently staring at Grantaire’s torso. “Nrgh” Enjolras said. Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t frozen then.

“Um,” said Enjolras and then “er.” And then there was an outburst. “Seriously? It’s like you’ve shaded in your stomach with eyeliner to create the appearance of a six pack.” He frowned, and then strode over to Grantaire, or at least, strode as much as one can stride when one is within sneezing distance of the person towards whom you are striding. He then sank to the floor. Grantaire held his breath. Was he going to-? Was he…?

He felt a slight scrubbing sensation at his stomach, and looked down. Enjolras was rubbing furiously at his abdominal muscles with a bit of the sleeve of his turtleneck, and looked cross. “Muscular honesty,” he said, continuing to rub, “is of crucial importance. I refuse to be deluded by the smoke and mirrors of aptitude with cosmetics. The people will not stand for this!”

Grantaire coughed. “Actually, I spend a lot of time working on my body with my personal fitness instructor.”

The scrubbing stopped abruptly. “You mean they’re real?” he heard from somewhere in the vicinity of his navel. Instead of rubbing, he began to feel cold hands poking at his torso. “They’re real” Grantaire confirmed, swallowing slightly, “if admittedly tensed.” He swallowed again. Despite there being absolutely nothing erotic about the situation, he was concentrating on trying not to develop a massive erection. It was quite hard when you had someone practically breathing on your crotch, and even harder when that someone was quite possibly the hottest bit of ass that you’d ever seen – and, trust him, he’d seen a _lot_ of ass. Maybe, upon reflection, it was a slightly erotic situation.

“Anyway,” Grantaire said, jumping backwards. He was losing the boner-battle on an epic scale and was trying to put as much air as possible between himself and… and Enjolras.

“Enjolras is a stupid name.” he said, stupidly.

Enjolras got up. “Oh yeah? Well, you’re one to be talking, hot-guy-from-the-bar. If that isn’t a stupid name, then I don’t know what is.”

R stared at him in incredulity. “You don’t actually think my name is hot-guy-from-the-bar, do you?”

Enjolras met his gaze unwaveringly. “Yes?” he began to look doubtful. “No?” he hazarded again. “Well, you’re hot, I already conceded that point, you’re from the bar and as far as I can tell you identify as a man, although I don’t want you to think I’m subscribing to the gender binary because if you’re a woman or a them or anything really, I’m cool with that, I mean, be who you want to be, and don’t let anyone tell you anything different!” He got into his stride. “If you don’t want to be hot _guy_ from the bar, then don’t let people keep calling you hot guy from the bar! Stand up for your rights!”

Grantaire decided to interrupt before he got too into his flow. “I’m called Grantaire. And yes, I do identify as a man so cool your socks and don’t go all Che Guevara on me.”

There was another awkward pause. They stared at each other. For someone, Grantaire mused, who had so recently been in the vicinity of his crotch, it was seeming more and more unlikely that he and Enjolras would actually have sex. Enjolras seemed to have realised this as well. He sat down on the studded leather sofa that had probably gone through eight different generations of the same family before Grantaire had picked it up, and folded his arms.

“Show me your move.”

“My… what?!” Grantaire replied, feeling as though he was remarkably out of place. This was ridiculous. Even as hot as this guy was, it wasn’t fair of him to make _Grantaire_ feel like he stuck out like a sore thumb in his own bloody flat. He had had enough of that at fucking _school_ , for Christ’s sake. For someone who seemed so hung up on democracy, it wasn’t very democratic of him.

“Your _move_. You know, the big move you make when you bring people back here. The move you make to, you know-”

“To what?”

“To get them to have sex with you.”

Oh. Grantaire thought about it for a second. “Well, you’ll laugh at me…”

“What is it?”

“No, seriously, you’ll laugh.”

“Grantaire, show me the move.” Enjolras was so commanding when he spoke that Grantaire found himself powerless to refuse. Surely this wasn’t the way it was supposed to work.

“Fine.” Grantaire sank down onto the sofa next to his guest and covered his eyes with his hands. “Promise me you’re not going to laugh at me.”

“I promise.” Enjolras looked deadly serious, from what Grantaire could see of him through the gaps in-between his fingers.

“Well… I tell people that I can do the Carlton dance.”

“What?”

Grantaire groaned. “You know, the dance that Carlton does? In ‘The Fresh Prince’?”

“’The Fresh’ what?”

“’The Fresh Prince’! ‘The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’! Don’t tell me you’ve never seen ‘The Fresh Prince’!”

In all seriousness, though, don’t tell Grantaire that you’ve never seen ‘The Fresh Prince’. That shit was his _life_ when he was stuck at miserable school and everyone was busy talking about how Arthur got with Millie Texington-Lane last week at the social, and he had absolutely nothing to contribute.

“I’ve never seen ‘The Fresh Prince.’” Enjolras told him, frankly. “But I’d like to see the dance.”

The thing about the dance was that it was unashamedly embarrassing. Grantaire’s theory – and boy, was it a good theory – was that by the time he had got the girl/boy/other to his house, they had already seen cocky, sexy, masterful R. To really seal the deal, Grantaire theorized, he needed to display his loveable, quirky, I’m-just-a-nice-guy-that’s-been-turned-into-this-cold-sex-god side. And the perfect way to do this was to enact some humiliating piece of popular culture that would make girls swoon and men get competitive. Éponine told him that this was all bullshit, but then Éponine hadn’t broken her personal best for one night stands in a single annum last year.

“That is the single most ridiculous dance I have ever seen.” Enjolras told him from the sofa, one eyebrow cocked. Grantaire whined. It wasn’t fair for him to be over here looking like a fool, and for Enjolras to just have to cock one eyebrow to make him want to sink to his knees and…

“But it is kind of working.” What?

“What?”

“It’s kind of working. I quite like the quirky side. It’s… well, it’s quirky. Quirkily quirky. Isn’t quirky a good word?”

Grantaire smiled. Yes. Things were back on track. This was how things were supposed to unfold. This – except, maybe without the weird word play – was exactly what was supposed to happen. He stopped dancing – why hadn’t he already stopped dancing? – and loped back over to the sofa, sinking down on it once again. But this time it wasn’t sinking that was reminiscent of the sinking of that other great bastion of taste and sophistication (the Titanic) but a sinking that shouted ‘I have an entire cupboard dedicated to glittery sex toys’. Grantaire cupped Enjolras’ face in his hands, and pulled it towards him. “I have an entire cupboard dedicated to glittery sex toys,” he told him, before leaning in for a kiss.

At which point Enjolras vomited all over the floor.

\---

Afterward Grantaire would brush it off with comments like “it’s _fine,”_ (it wasn’t) and _“_ the carpet really wasn’t that expensive anyway, and it certainly wasn’t a Persian antique that I inherited from a great aunt,” (it was).

“I think I was just sick.” Enjolras muttered, in horror.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Grantaire replied, also in horror. There was nothing not horrific about this situation.

“I haven’t had an alcoholic drink in two years.” Enjolras told him, somewhat woozily.

“Why the fuck did you drink yours, then? Why did you drink _mine?_ Why were you in a fucking bar in the first place?” Grantaire asked, grabbing his abandoned t-shirt (white, urban outfitters, you would not _believe_ how much it cost to buy a white t-shirt that was ever so slightly worn in) and using it to mop Enjolras’ face with a tenderness that belied his tone.

“I was only there to get with you. I think I’ve fucked that up now, haven’t I?” Enjolras asked, in a small voice. “I’ve definitely fucked it up now.”

“It’s fine.” Grantaire told him shortly (because the carpet was a Persian antique, and it was going to be a nightmare to clean) before hoisting him up with an arm around his shoulder. “I think you need to go to bed… unless you think you’ll vomit again?”

Enjolras frowned at him. He was a very frowny person, as people kept telling him (especially Courfeyrac) but the truth of the matter was, he just liked frowning. He felt it gave him a certain gravitas. Gravitas was exactly what he needed right now. “I don’t think I’m going to vomit again… and yes, I’ve thought about it, and you’re right, let’s go to bed. I am still able to give my consent.”

Grantaire gave him his own Look. “We’re not going to have sex! I’m going to put you into my bed, there’s going to be a whole host of rom-com clichés where you grab my hand and ask me to stay, I’m going to say no because quite frankly you smell of vomit, and I’d rather sleep in the other room, and then we can… sort things out in the morning.”

“When you say sort things out in the morning,” Enjolras muttered miserably, allowing himself to be supported towards Grantaire’s bedroom, “what you really mean is that I’ll awkwardly give you some money for professional carpet cleaning before I awkwardly leave and never see you again. And that not seeing will probably be awkward as well.”

“Probably.”

“Okay.” Enjolras flopped onto the bed, before haphazardly pulling off his jumper and struggling with the button of his jeans.

“I am not helping you take off your jeans, Enjolras.” Grantaire told him sternly.

Grantaire helped him take off his jeans.

“This bed is… it’s very comfortable.” Enjolras muttered, snuggling down into the covers. Grantaire made a noise of agreement. He knew it was comfortable. He had spent enough money on Egyptian cotton sheets and memory foam mattresses to ensure that it was the downiest and most orthopaedic/back-supporting night’s sleep that anyone could hope to wish for.

He began to move away from Enjolras’ side, when a claw-like hand shot out and gripped his wrist with a speed and strength that was unnatural for someone who was supposedly blind drunk. Then again, he mused, nothing that Enjolras had done up until the vomiting had really indicated that he was seriously sloshed. Apart maybe from the quirky bit.

“Shtay wiv meee,” the muffled voice came from under a pile of pillows.

Grantaire sighed patiently. Then he sighed again, hoping to imbue his voice with some of the patience of that sigh.

“I already told you, I’m not staying.”

“But what if I choke on my own sick in the middle of the night? It happened in ‘Breaking Bad’, you know,” came the reply.

“Seriously? That’s the reason why you want me to stay?”

Grantaire ended up staying.

\---

“So then I threw up on him.” Enjolras hid his face in his hands as Courfeyrac wooped and cheered. Combeferre wasn’t making any noise, but then Combeferre didn’t need to make any noise to express his disapproval. Enjolras knew that if he looked up, Combeferre would be gazing down on him with a mixture of pity and wry amusement. He peeked through his hands. Yup, pity, wry amusement and a touch of ‘you’re-an-utter-twat’. He groaned again. It seemed the only reasonable thing to do.

Combeferre sighed, and took a sip of his coffee. There was a reason why Enjolras didn’t drink, and this was exactly it. Fresher’s Week in their very first term of university had been the most alcohol-and-vomit soaked week of Combeferre’s life. Many people assumed that he had met Courfeyrac and Enjolras through one of the LGBTQIA campaigns that they had subsequently joined: what they didn’t know was that Combeferre had witnessed Enjolras and Courfeyrac downing shots of something glittery (why was glitter always involved with Courfeyrac?) in a club, and then had witnessed the subsequent aftermath. In Hermione Granger’s words – and Combeferre had always liked to think of himself as the Hermione of the group – there are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and watching Enjolras disastrously attempt a pole-dance was one of them. “So what happened the next morning? I assume you didn’t stay,” he asked, trying not to let his amusement show. The look Enjolras shot him told him that he hadn’t been very successful.

“That’s the worst thing… I did stay. I woke up and apparently I asked him to _stay_ with me, because, and I quote ‘I might choke on my own sick in the middle of the night.’ Apparently I told him it happened in ‘Breaking Bad’, and he got really pissy the next day because apparently he hasn’t watched the end of season two.”

Courf’s eyes widened. “Dude, you spoiled ‘Breaking Bad’ for him? That has got to be the _ultimate_ sin. God, personally I’d rather you vommed on my carpet again than ruin the _best_ TV show eve-”

“Yes, Courfeyrac, we know all about your weird crush on Walter White, we don’t need to hear about it again.” Combeferre interrupted, waving a hand at his friend to get him to shut up. “Why on _earth_ did you stay?”

“Well when I woke up, he had kind of… attached himself to me like a limpet during the night. I mean, serious snuggling. Even more limpet-like than Courf. And, well, it was quite nice. He has some _serious_ muscles. And I didn’t feel like I could – I mean, I didn’t want to just _leave._ ”

Combeferre raised one eyebrow at him. “So, are you going to see him again?”

Enjolras took a moody bite out of his croissant, and chewed noisily. “Yes? No? I don’t know. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to see me again after that debacle.”

Courfeyrac gave a derisive snort. “Dude, have you seen your face? Trust me, E, he’ll come crawling.”

Enjolras’ phone buzzed, breaking the rhythm of the conversation. All three turned to look at it, and all three lunged for it as one. As per, Courfeyrac came out on top. “He wants to see you again!” Courf crowed cheerfully, typing in Enjolras’ password with incredulous ease. Enjolras had no idea how his friends always managed to guess his passwords. It wasn’t like ‘patria’ was that common a word, after all. “And he sent you two snapchats!” his friend told him gleefully.  

The three of them huddled around the screen, whilst Courf pressed on the little red box. A picture of the floor of Grantaire’s flat popped up, with a large, dark stain in the middle of the carpet. “Dude,” Courf said, turning to Enjolras, “you covered an impressively large patch of ground. Congrats on the spray-”

“Oh shut _up_ , Courf, and open the other one.” Enjolras interrupted irritably. The next snapchat was a picture of Grantaire with the caption _‘fancy a second attempt?’_

Combeferre whistled, low. “I can’t decide if he’s incredibly nice or just an absolute nutter to be asking you for another try.”

\---

“Éponine,” Grantaire muttered into the receiver, “I think I might be in love.”

“What do you mean, ‘you’re in love’?”

“I mean that this is the fifth time I’ve seen this guy in four days. _And_ he’s wearing mismatching socks. _And_ he doesn’t even drink. _And_ we haven’t even got anywhere near to having sex yet. And the worst thing is,I don’t even care.”

“Honestly, R, it sounds like you’re fucked.”

“Shit.”

**Author's Note:**

> All comments would be greatly appreciated! 
> 
> Thanks


End file.
